


Metamour

by ChooseToLive



Category: U2
Genre: Aftercare, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-05 12:21:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6704401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChooseToLive/pseuds/ChooseToLive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Bono, 2015 got off to a rough start, and the impending tour is proving to have its own challenges; Ali and Edge work together to help him navigate the upcoming changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to [likeamadonna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/likeamadonna/pseuds/likeamadonna) for helping me get this off the ground, for her patience with my babble and ignorance, and insights that helped move this story forward. Much of the B/E dynamic I credit to her and her series Close/Closer/Closest; this isn’t the same universe, but it is very much inspired by it.
> 
> She is also responsible for the title - “metamour,” as she taught me in her story [Hidden in Plain Sight](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6052774), is the word for “the partner of my partner.” It was exactly what I was looking for.
> 
> Finally, huge amounts of credit go to my dear friend [dreamsofspike](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/pseuds/dreamsofspike), who knows almost nothing about U2 but has been endlessly patient and encouraging towards my new obsession, and has read many many words about middle-aged rock stars on my behalf. I love you.

The sun room is not living up to its name.  Beyond its glass walls a gray sky merges with the equally dull sea, rain blowing against the windows and rendering the landscape out of focus.  The wash of rain is soothing, however, and this corner of the house is usually spared the chaos of Ali’s three man-boys.  What remains of the daylight will soon be fading, and she judges it just late enough to place her call without being inconsiderate.

The phone rings several times, reaching out eight hours earlier into the day, and she is just considering that she is either too early or too late when she hears the other end engage.  

“Ali.”  Edge’s voice is warm but there’s a roughness behind it, as if he’s just woken up, or simply never gone to sleep.  

“Hey, love, how are you?”

“Exhausted.”  He lets out a sigh, and she can visualize the fingers rubbing his forehead, the lines deep around his eyes.  “I’m so tired of this political circle-jerk.  I can’t wait to get home.”

“I must warn you, the weather here will make you miss LA immediately.”  She looks out at where the rain has let up just enough to allow a weak glow of light from the south.  “My unsolicited advice is to enjoy the sunshine while you have it.”

“I’m ahead of you there; sometimes that’s the only thing that keeps me moving forward with this whole project.  But there are far more important priorities for me in Ireland.”

The warmth in his voice causes Ali to smile.  “He can’t wait for you to get back.  You know those countdown chains that children make?  You tear one ring off for each day?  I’ve been tempted to make one for him, I think he would get great delight out of ripping a ring off every morning.”

Edge chuckles.  “Only three rings left…”

“But he thinks there are five!  I really can’t wait to see his face, Edge.  It’s become so difficult to surprise him.”  It feels like a long time since she’s been able to provide Bono with something uniformly good; his injury and subsequent recovery have placed constraints on them both that have been emotionally draining.  Though there have been distinct improvements recently, even such a small thing as this feels like a victory.

“Thank you for making all the arrangements, Ali.  I can’t imagine how I could’ve done it from here; every time I think all my business is done, some crisis comes along and slaps me in the face.”

“Oh, I’ve had a wonderful time planning your weekend.  I’ll email you all the details.  It’s not much, just the room and dinner reservations.” She can’t resist teasing, “If you manage to actually leave the room.”  

That wins her a laugh.  “We probably won’t, though we aren’t 30 anymore.”

“Try telling him that,” Ali replies dryly, holding back a laugh of her own.  “He has been feeling _much_ more… energetic, lately.”

“In that case, I consider myself advised.” There’s a sound on the line Ali recognizes as another call coming in for Edge.  “I have to go now, thank you again, love.”

“See you in a few days.”

***

Edge is aware that most of his adult life has been one of privilege, but never is he more appreciative of that fact than when he is traveling.  After twelve hours on a plane from Los Angeles, being able to bypass the immigration lines and chaos of baggage claim is a bliss he never wants to take for granted.  He sinks into the soft leather of the courtesy car and closes his eyes as they begin the brief journey to the VIP area.  

He lets the stress of the past month fall away as he turns his thoughts to the upcoming weekend: a peaceful afternoon and evening with his wife and children, and then, beginning tomorrow, two days of Bono.  He allows the smile that wants to come through at the thought, his fingers already itching to touch.  Before he had left for LA, both Bono’s injury and circumstance had limited their contact to that of the rather chaste variety; though he knows they will still have to be careful, he feels confident that there is plenty they will be able to get up to.

He feels the car slow to a stop, and blinks himself back into the present.  Thanking his driver, he gets out and heads into the waiting area, looking immediately for his wife’s abundant hair and slender frame.

Instead, he finds large dark eyes belonging to Ali, who gives him a small smile and starts forward.  Edge frowns and looks once again for Morleigh, concern rising up when he cannot find her.

“Hi, Edge.”  Ali leans up and kisses his cheek, and he gives her a hug, an automatic response in his preoccupation.  “I asked Morleigh if I could come meet you.”

That allays some of his concerns, though hardly all.  “Is everything alright?”  He pulls back to look at her; her expression is solemn, but not upset.

She meets his gaze, and seems to realize the direction of his thoughts.  “Oh, yes - well, not entirely, but nothing dire.” She offers him another smile, though it fades quickly.  “I am afraid that Bono has taken himself off to London for the weekend.”  Her mouth twists.  “He was on the phone with some political dignitary when I left to take the boys to school this morning, and by the time I got back he was gone.  He called from the airport.”  Her eyes and tone are soft and apologetic.  “He was so happy to be doing something, I didn’t have the heart to tell him you were already on your way.”

Edge takes a moment to let that sink in.  No Bono.  No lazy weekend to rediscover each other, to celebrate how well his recovery was going.  No hours of running hands over skin, of talking and listening to Bono’s laughter.  He’s been looking forward to the upcoming weekend more than he cares to think about; he wants to reconnect, to simply enjoy his best friend and lover before they get sucked back into the U2 machine.  And there’s a small part of him making note of how hard he’s driven himself to finish his business in LA, shunning sleep and cutting corners so that he can be back in time for these precious days.  All for naught, now, and Edge feels unbearably weary.

“I’m so sorry, Edge.”  

He opens his eyes - when had they closed? - and sees Ali’s hands clasped together, mouth tight.  Her distress breaks through the exhaustion that’s fallen over him, and he slips an arm around her waist, pulling her to him so he can press a kiss to her temple.  “It’s not your fault.  I suppose I should’ve known something like this would happen if we tried to surprise him.”

She’s smiling again when she pulls away, albeit ruefully.  “We should both know better by now, but I’d grown complacent with him around all the time.”  She begins to walk in the direction of the car park, and Edge falls in beside her.  “I know it’s not what you’d hoped for, but at least let me take you to lunch.  You must be starving.”

“Ali, it is never a disappointment to spend time with you.”

*

As they are seated at their table, Ali takes a moment to study Edge.  His is not a face that reveals much, but she is practiced at reading him.  He’s done well in handling her news, but she can see the disappointment in the corners of his mouth, and in the way his gaze goes distant.  Beyond that, however, there’s a tightness around his eyes that speaks of something deeper.

“I’m not sure LA was good for you,” she says.

Edge raises an eyebrow, but his face relaxes a little.  “I don’t think it was either, but it was necessary.” He leans back in his chair.  “And now I’m done with it, for a little while at least.”

“Please tell me it wasn’t all meetings about the Malibu property.”

“Thankfully, no.  Some of it was time over at Fender, board stuff and finishing up my guitar, and of course I spent some time with Morleigh’s parents.  But overall, it was unavoidably a business trip, just getting things taken care of before rehearsals start again.”  He waves a hand.  “But you don’t care about all that.  I need to catch up with you.  How are the boys doing in school?”

They exchange news while perusing the menu and placing their orders.  Ali finds herself appreciating anew Edge’s even-temperedness; he seems to have moved past the disappointment about Bono’s absence, while she knows the reverse situation would have put Bono in a deep funk.

“I talked to Bono a few days ago,” Edge says once the server takes their menus away, “and he seemed to be in good spirits, but I want to know what you think.  He must be doing well if he’s running off at a moment’s notice.”

Ali laughs. “That really is the best sign we’ve seen so far, isn’t it?  Really, I think rehearsal starting on Monday is the best thing that could happen - it’s given him something to look forward to.  There have been days recently where he’s been quite discouraged, but that’s kept him focused.”

“I admit I’m a little concerned with how he’ll do with us rearranging the songs he normally plays on.”

She inclines her head in acknowledgement.  “Right after you left, he had a bit of a rough patch.  He wanted to blame it on you being gone, but his fingers were being difficult.”

Edge’s eyebrows knit together.  “So no real improvement on that front?”

“He’s been generally improving, better than expected really, and a good bit of the PT is focusing on his dexterity.” She gives a half-smile, not really feeling it.  “But it’s not enough for him to be able to play, at least not any time soon.”

Edge is quiet then, his gaze drifting off over her shoulder.  The fingers on his left hand flex where they rest on the table, and she reaches out and places her hand over his.  “He’s said several times that at least it happened to him, not you.”  She smiles reassuringly when Edge meets her eyes again.  “He gets disappointed, but he has perspective.”

He turns his hand up to squeeze hers, and then she takes her hand back.  “Well, I think we’ve been able to rearrange the songs pretty well to compensate, as long as he approves.” He gives her a wry smile. “Which he won’t want to do on principal, but he’ll come around.”

“You don’t know how many times he begged me to take him by to hear the three of you working on them.”

Edge closes his eyes. “Ali, thank you from the bottom of my - and Adam’s and Larry’s - hearts that you stayed strong.”

She laughs.  “Don’t worry, I know better.  So does he, he was just climbing the walls, especially then.  There was one night he claimed he wanted to burn the house down, since it felt so much like a prison.  It was over the time when he was feeling well enough to do more, but wasn’t yet able to get himself around.”

“Clearly that’s changed.”  But his eyes are amused.

“Clearly.” Ali raises an eyebrow.  “On the upside, I may have informed your wife that your weekend is suddenly free.”

That brings out a full-blown smile.  “And that,” he says, “is the best news I’ve heard all day.”

***

Edge waits patiently in the town car for Bono, making sure the privacy divider is fully raised and then devoting his attention to his phone.  He reviews several emails, sends a couple more, and tries very hard to not calculate how much time it’s been since Bono’s plane landed and how much more he might need to finish his business in the airport.  There couldn’t possibly be any holdup coming back from three days in London…

Finally he sees the automatic doors slide open as Bono exits, talking animatedly to their driver as they walk towards the car.  Edge smiles, taking in how much more freely Bono is moving, the sling gone and no pain obvious from this distance.

Bono talks all the way through his door being opened and sitting into the car, so it isn’t until the door is swinging shut that he turns enough to notice he is not alone.

“Reg!” he exclaims, face lighting up with a beaming smile, and before Edge can even reply Bono is pressing himself against Edge’s side, right arm sliding behind Edge’s back and forehead pushing into his neck.  “Oh my god, I missed you, Edge, I’ve been going mad from boredom and I’m sure Ali’s ready to kill me and this fucking arm, I just don’t know-”

Edge lets Bono’s voice wash over him for a moment, the prattle easy and familiar, then raises his hand to press a finger to Bono’s lips.  Bono cuts himself off immediately, the breath of his next word curling around Edge’s skin.  “Baby,” Edge breathes, approving, and takes a moment to just feel Bono against him, absorbing the weight and scent of him.  Then Bono’s tongue darts out, a delicate little swipe up Edge’s finger.  The unexpected contact makes Edge shiver, and Bono’s mouth curves up, pleased.  

Edge shifts his hand and traces his thumb over those lips, then presses it gently on the lower one until they part; Bono presses a kiss into the tip.  Using only the slightest pressure, Edge turns Bono’s face up until their eyes meet, then runs his fingers over the planes of Bono’s face, smooth cheekbones into day-old stubble, relearning the texture of his skin.  When he reaches Bono’s glasses, he pulls them off and sets them aside, leaving nothing between him and the pale blue eyes looking up at him.  Waiting for him.

When he finally brings their mouths together, Bono surges up to meet him, lips parting immediately to allow Edge inside.  Edge won’t indulge him that readily, choosing instead to suck and bite at Bono’s mouth, snaking his tongue out for quick tastes and then retreating before Bono can meet him.  He pulls Bono’s lower lip between his and feels stubble rasp against his skin, running teeth and tongue over the rough-smooth contrast, wanting to see lips red and swollen as the result of his attention.

“Want everyone to know, huh, Reg?” Bono whispers between kisses, the words distorted against their skin.  “Want everyone to see that I’m yours, that you can do anything to me-” and Edge cuts him off with his mouth, knowing he’s only proving the effect Bono’s words have on him, but unable to respond otherwise.  Bono moans as their tongues twine together, a sound Edge knows is exaggerated, but it sends blood racing south nevertheless.

When Bono’s fingers begin pulling clumsily at the hem of Edge’s shirt, however, Edge gently clasps his damaged hand and redirects it.  He doesn’t actually want them to arrive at rehearsal looking thoroughly debauched, as attractive as the idea is in theory.  Bono whines a little in protest, but limits himself to teasing little caresses through the fine weave of Edge’s shirt - a scrape of thumbnail over Edge’s nipple, a tracing of fingers at the waist of his jeans.

They’re well into the city center by the time Edge eases them back down, Bono curled up practically in his lap and placing absent kisses on his throat, while Edge’s hand traces up and down Bono’s spine.  His other hand finds Bono’s hair, and he scratches his fingers through it idly, giving their bodies some time to calm.  Bono, for once, does not seem inclined to talk, apparently content to rest his head on Edge’s shoulder.

They make it through two intersections before that unnatural state corrects itself.

“You know, Edge, I now have medical clearance for certain activities that were proscribed before you left.”

Edge glances down and raises an eyebrow.  “Yes, I know - you were so eager to inform me that I believe you texted me while the doctor was still in the room.”

Bono widens his eyes. “So you realize there are nearly three weeks of potential sex we have to make up for.”

“Poor deprived boy.”

“Very deprived.  I haven’t had you inside me in months, Edge - months!  Since last year, even!  The state I have been forced to live in is simply inhumane.”

“Hm.”  

Edge directs his attention out the window and holds back a smirk when Bono shifts against him, rubbing his upper body along Edge’s side in a manner that can only be described as wanton.  Edge does his best to ignore him as Bono resumes his attentions towards Edge’s neck; they’re both out of practice at this, and Edge is being reminded anew what a joy the tease can be.

“So how is it you came to be in my car this morning, anyway?” Bono asks, after a few minutes of Edge refusing to be swayed from his fascination with the Dublin streets.  He raises a hand and traces a finger along the corner of Edge’s eye.  “You look far too rested to have flown in this morning.  So I am forced to conclude that after getting in yesterday, you got up early, and arranged to be picked up in advance by my car just so you could see me as soon as I arrived.”  He preens a little.

“Actually, my car is in the shop and this was the only way I knew I could get to rehearsal,” Edge says, straight-faced.

Bono wrinkles his nose at him.  “In that case I’ll send you a bill.”

Edge weighs the pros and cons of letting Bono assume he only flew in yesterday, but he finds it feels too much like lying.  “By the way, I didn’t get in yesterday.  I flew back on Friday.  Got in a couple of hours after you left.”

Bono sits up straight, the first time the entire journey they haven’t been in practically full-body contact.  His eyes are wide.  “What?  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Ali and I wanted to surprise you.” Edge gives a rueful smile. “Surprise was on us.”

Bono groans and lets his head fall back against the seat, all drama.  “Damn it.  I wish she had said something when I told her I was leaving.”

“And then what would you have done?” Edge asks pragmatically.  “Called your political figure back and told them never mind, you can’t make it because you have a weekend rendezvous with your lover?”

“…yes?” Bono closes his eyes as if in pain.  “You had a weekend rendezvous planned?”

“Well, Ali did all the planning, as I was too insanely busy.  But yes.”

“Damn, damn, damn.”  His eyes squeeze tight and then open, head turning so he can look sorrowfully at Edge.  “I am so sorry, love.”

“Don’t be, it’s not anybody’s fault.”  Edge leans over and gives him a quick kiss.  “I only told you now because I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”

“A whole weekend where I could’ve had you all to myself, and instead I was schmoozing politicians.” He makes a tragically sad face.

“You’ll soon have me all to yourself for an entire tour.”

“Not for months yet, and that’s hardly time to ourselves.”

“I am sure we’ll find a way to make up for it.”

“Please tell me we’ll make up for it this weekend?”  Pleading eyes.

“Hm.  We’ll see.”

“That means no.” Bono heaves a sigh.  “God.  Cockblocked by myself.  I don’t know what I did to deserve this, Reg.”

“Become a wildly successful and influential person, I suppose.”  Edge kisses him again, a bit longer this time.  “I love you, B.  Now look, we’re here.  Time to sing for your supper.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first rehearsal to prepare for tour is something Edge has come to view with both anticipation and apprehension.  There’s always a degree of struggle and tedium involved in rehearsing the new material - all of them trying to remember how a certain sound was achieved, and then determining whether that sound is the best representation of the song for a live environment.  It has become the practice of Edge, Adam, and Larry to work out much of this in advance, but nothing is final until Bono’s input is heard and considered.  There is never any shortage of arguments and debates, of trial and error, and Edge has come to approach these sessions somewhat loaded for bear.

The first half of the day lives up to his expectations, spent listening to tracks and futzing with settings, the four of them trying to find their rhythm together and offering not-always-welcome advice to the others.  Progress is inevitably made, albeit slowly, and at the end of several hours they have workable approaches to a couple of tracks.

But some of the songs are like old friends, the chords coming easy under his fingers, the sound wrapping itself around him like a lover, no matter if it has been months or years since he’s played them.

He puts his fingers to his guitar and lets the opening groove to _Elevation_ spill out, the rhythm immediately making his body rock in time with it.  Looking up, he can see the same spell falling on his bandmates, and Adam flashes a grin as the bass and drums come in.

Then Bono’s voice fills his ears, and he closes his eyes, letting the familiar tones vibrate through him.  

On the verse, Bono’s voice soars, out of proportion with the music, and Edge feels a smile overtake his face at his partner’s exuberance.  Though it has been some weeks since Bono healed enough to sing full voice, there is an undeniable magic to the entire band playing together.  Edge opens his eyes to watch Bono, seeing his face contort and body flex as he gives himself over to the music.

Then Bono’s eyes open and find Edge’s, a spark in them visible even through his glasses.  As they go into the bridge, the corners of his eyes crinkle and he stalks towards Edge across the small space, a predatory energy in his stride. 

_Won’t you tell me something true  
_ _I believe in you_

There’s a suspended moment where they stare at each other from inches apart, the entire room seeming to hold its breath, and then Bono leaps away as they crash into the final chorus.  Edge pushes the energy into his playing, letting the guitar fly while he matches Bono’s grin, a feedback loop of joy.

*

The remainder of rehearsal is spent brushing off the older material, which Edge views as both necessary and a suitable reward for a productive morning.  He watches the smile on Bono’s lips grow until it threatens to split his face, and the mood is contagious.  There is pleasure and relief in Adam and Larry’s expressions, and the air is full of the intangible energy that is the band coming together.  Even when the tempo slows and their faces can’t sustain the smiles, there is a passion in the room that carries them, keeps their eyes alight as the hours string out.

It’s late when they call an end to it, and as soon as his guitars are put away, Edge steps over to Bono and throws an arm around his neck.  “Good job, B.”

Bono immediately turns into him, arms going around his waist while pressing his face to Edge’s neck.  Edge can feel the smile against his skin, and takes the opportunity to inhale deeply, enjoying the scent of Bono overlaid by sweat and mostly-faded cologne.  Bono begins to sway them back and forth, and Edge grins into his hair.

Adam breezes past them into the small lobby, calling over his shoulder, “Looks like just you and me at the pub, Lar, the lovebirds are already in a clinch.”

Edge laughs as Bono unwraps one arm and gives Adam’s back the finger.

“You’ll note that I have regained enough dexterity in my left hand for this most vital of gestures,” he calls, lifting his head so his words are audible.

“It’s good to know your priorities are in order for your PT,” Larry replies with a grin, following Adam out.

Edge plants a smacking kiss on Bono’s temple and then releases him, ignoring the pout Bono angles his way.  “Come on, let’s celebrate.”

“Well, yes, that’s what I thought we were doing,” Bono replies, a glint in his eye that makes Edge pause, briefly considering what surfaces in the rehearsal space could be repurposed. 

He must study Bono’s features a moment too long, as the front door opens in the distance and Larry bellows, “Don’t sully the furniture!”

“What furniture?” Bono shouts back.  “We were going to use your stool!”

There’s an outraged sound from Larry, and Edge breaks up laughing, reaching out to push Bono towards the door.

***

There are times Edge feels like he’s spent the majority of his life drinking with these three men, and there is both a comfort and exhilaration to the traditional celebration of the first rehearsal.  It’s a small shock to realize that they have been sharing times like this for nearly four decades, and while the conversation is the usual small talk and taking the piss, Edge is aware of an undercurrent to the whole day - a sense of appreciation that they are doing this at all. 

Bono is animated and verging on loud, telling stories they’ve all heard before while his knee bumps against Edge’s under the table.  They’re all a few pints in, with the exception of Adam, and when Bono’s fingers tangle with Edge’s under the table, he closes their hands together.  There’s a wall at their back, so no real risk of discovery, and Edge pulls until their joined hands are resting on his thigh.

It’s good to feel this simple optimism.  Soon, Edge knows, worries and questions will begin to seep back in - the backlash to the album release had rocked them all, and the tentative recovery had been thoroughly derailed by Bono’s accident.  He knows from many a drug-induced ramble that Bono feels particularly responsible for the entire situation, but tonight there is no trace of fear.

Bono’s free hand gestures expressively at Larry, and Edge takes the moment to study the beloved profile.  His freckles have faded to near invisibility, a consequence of winter and being housebound for long weeks.  Despite the damage his face has suffered, he has healed admirably, and Edge imagines the scars aren’t visible to anyone who hasn’t learned every millimeter of Bono’s skin via years of caresses.  His fingers itch to run along that new skin, and he wants to put every bit under his lips and tongue, to learn every new cell. 

In the more than two decades that he and Bono have been together, there have only been a handful of times when they’ve gone this long without being intimate.  At no point in their relationship has there been exclusivity with either Ali or himself, yet the natural patterns of their lives dictate that for long stretches of time, Bono is predominantly with only one of them.  Typically, there are brief trips or occasions planned so no one person or relationship are neglected; due to the accident and all that surrounded it, however, it has been over four months since they’ve had the opportunity to be together.

Adam says something and Bono laughs, the sound tripping down Edge’s spine and making him shiver.  His fingers tighten involuntarily, and Bono breaks off to look at him, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Part of Edge wants to bid Adam and Larry goodnight, and go find a hotel room where he and Bono can spend the rest of the night reacquainting themselves with each other.  Bono’s smile widens, as if he can read Edge’s thoughts - which, at this point, perhaps he can.

Edge gives a small shake of his head, ignoring the tilted eyebrows that proceed to question his sanity.  And perhaps such a question is valid, he acknowledges with a tilt of his head.  But at this point he wants more than a half-drunk tumble to take the edge off.

He slides his hand away, but smiles a promise of more later, before turning back to his beer.  He lifts the glass to his mouth, then pauses as he sees Larry and Adam staring at him over the rim.

“Oh, back with us, are you?” Adam asks dryly.  “We said goodnight, but you never answered.”

Edge hesitates, feeling a flush creep up his face - has he really been that intent on Bono?  Then he looks at the table and sees his bandmates’ glasses still half full.

“Oh, fuck off,” he says scornfully, and Adam and Larry break out laughing while Edge drains the rest of his drink, hoping to cover his embarrassment.

Bono is grinning beside him.  “Jealousy does not become you,” he scolds them, laughter just underneath his words.

Adam scoffs.  “You wish.  It’s just nice to see some things never change.”

Larry hides a laugh in his glass.  “Mate, of all the things that might change in life, I don’t think that’s one of them.”

“True wuv,” Adam mocks, and Bono loses it, giggles overtaking him as he collapses against Edge’s shoulder.  Edge grins against his temple and can’t wait for the future.

***

“Ali.”

Her name penetrates the fog of sleep, awareness coming slow and unwelcome.

“Ali.  Ali.”

She forces her eyes open, a small sound of protest escaping without her conscious approval.  Bono is leaning over her, eyes sparkling in the dim light, beer on his breath.  She has no idea what time it is.  “What?” she mumbles.

“Edge told me about your plot and I’m so sorry I went away and spoiled it but you’re still the best and I love you.”

He is entirely too wound up for the amount of energy she currently has, but she can’t help the smile; it’s been a long time since she’s seen him uncomplicatedly happy.  She reaches up and pulls him down next to her.  “You’re welcome.”

“The band sounds good, Ali.  I was worried we’d need more than a couple of weeks to pin down all the arrangements, but I shouldn’t have doubted Edge, he’s on top of it all as usual.  I think we’ll be right on schedule when we go to France.”

She lets the words flow over her, humming the occasional acknowledgement.  Two weeks.  A mere two weeks before Bono will be off to France for the next phase of rehearsals, and he won’t come home again until the first leg of tour is over.  The thought feels strange, though it’s not a surprise.  A truth, she thinks, starting to settle, and she holds him a little closer.  “It’s good to see you happy again.”

“God, I needed to sing again, I don’t think I knew how much.”  He snuggles down against her, left arm resting atop her waist, and she puts her hand on top of his.

“You’ve been singing, though,” she says, thinking of all the mornings since showers had been permitted again, his voice echoing out of the bathroom.  Her eyes have drifted shut and she can feel sleep closing back around her.

“Not with the band.  It’s completely different with the band, there’s just a level of intensity you can’t get anywhere else.  And then it’s completely different again at a show.  Each exponentially better than the other.  Well, most of the time.”

“Bono?”

“Yes?”

“You’ll get to sing again tomorrow.  I love you.  Please go to sleep now.”

Her body absorbs his chuckle, and he whispers, “Of course, my love.”  His lips against her temple are the last thing she feels.


	3. Chapter 3

“How is it having the house to yourself again?”

Ali looks up from the seating chart and over to Morleigh, who is writing place cards in a careful, elegant hand.  Other than the low scrape of pen on paper, the house is silent, in a way that seems almost loud now that Morleigh has drawn attention to it. 

“It feels a bit strange, honestly,” she says, smiling a little as she pushes a table over into a new configuration.  “Yesterday it was quiet for so long that I got up to see what Bono was up to.  I nearly made it to the office before I realized he wasn’t here!”

Morleigh laughs.  “I bet he’s happy for the change of scenery.”

“Thrilled.  He may as well have been a puppy the first couple of days, he had so much enthusiasm.  It’s starting to catch up a bit with him now, he gets tired out much more easily than he’s used to.”  She pushes a couple more tables over, then changes her mind and resets the diagram.

“Edge has been so happy when he gets home each night, it’s such a change from a couple of months ago.  I don’t know how much he let you see, but he worried so much, especially over the holidays.”

Ali sits back a little, sighing.  “It was hard not worry then; Bono was in constant pain and if we weren’t really careful about managing it, it could be hard to control.”  She reaches for a glass of water and takes a sip; those are days she doesn’t especially like to recall, when too often the choice was between Bono being out of his mind with drugs or with pain.  “And with my dad laid up at the same time, I got spread pretty thin.  The holidays were the worst possible time for it, too, with everyone so busy anyway.”

“You were a rock.”

Morleigh’s voice is sure, and it sparks a laugh from Ali.  “You only thought I was!  Edge let me have a good cry on his shoulder from time to time.”  She smiles at her friend.  “I don’t think I ever thanked you for letting us have him as much as you did; he was a lifesaver more than once.”

Morleigh gives her a mildly incredulous look.  “Like I could do anything else.  Ali.  If there was ever a time that need took precedence over our schedules, it was then.”  She shakes her head.  “That’s what this relationship is all about.”

“I know.”  Ali reaches out and squeezes her wrist.  “But I can still say thank you.”

“Well, you’re welcome.  You’d do the same.  You _have_ done the same.”  Morleigh’s eyes go distant for a moment, then she takes a deep breath and shakes it off.  “Do you think you’ll be on the road much this go-round?”

“Some, I’m sure, but I’m going to try and play it by ear.”  Ali sets aside her tablet and starts organizing the cards Morleigh’s completed.  “I want to let Edge have some space, it’s their time and I’m pretty happy with it that way.  But I’m sure a lot will depend on how Bono’s feeling about everything.”

“Tour nerves worse than usual this time, huh?”

“Oh, God, he’s had way too much time to think about it.”  She purses her lips.  “Thankfully it’s sold as well as it has, I can’t imagine how he’d be otherwise.”

“It’s definitely been one thing after another.”  Morleigh sets down the pen and shakes out her hand.  “If I do one more of those, my hand will fall off.  Ready for a break?”

***

The chords of an acoustic guitar echo down the hall as Ali lets herself into the house, and she smiles at Eli as she enters the kitchen, setting down a grocery bag.  He grins and throws in a little riff, then puts his hand on the strings, silencing the guitar.  

“Need any help?”  He starts to uncurl his lanky body from the barstool.

“Thank you, but this is everything,” Ali replies, pleased that he asked.  “Just some fresh things for the salad tonight.”  She starts to unload the bag.  “Keep playing, entertain me while I fix dinner.”

He doesn’t need to be asked twice, and she smiles as the music flows around her, the acoustics of the kitchen softening any rough notes.  She starts pulling out pasta and sauce, and setting a pot of water to boil.

She’s chopping vegetables for the salad when she hears her phone chime: Edge’s text tone.  Wiping her hands, she pulls out her phone and looks at the screen.

_He’s on his way home.  He’s feeling a bit down._

Frowning, she quickly types a reply.  _Did something go badly at rehearsal?_

It’s a moment before the phone chimes again.  _He misses playing.  We were working on some songs he normally plays on._

Immediately followed by: _He tried to play a little, but it didn’t go well.  I think his arm hurts._

She can’t help a soft sigh, her heart aching a little.  _Poor love.  Thank you, Edge.  I’ll take care of him._

_You always do._

*

The slamming of the garage door announces Bono’s arrival, the heavy thud cutting through the house and making Ali and Eli jump.  Eli’s hands still on the guitar, and Ali realizes that she probably should have asked him to put it away.  It’s too late now, however, as she can hear the stomping down the hall and undoubtedly foul mutterings of Bono-in-a-snit.

Eli raises an eyebrow at her, a dubious expression he’s perfected in regards to his father’s moods, looking to her for his cue.  She smiles back encouragingly; he rolls his eyes a little and returns his attention to the guitar, picking out a little melody.

Bono enters the kitchen with more noise than should be possible for one person; she calls out a greeting and is soundly ignored.  She keeps her gaze on dinner but watches him out of the corner of her eye, taking in the stiff way he’s holding his body, his injured arm tucked in against his side.  He levels a wicked glare in the direction of Eli, who is focusing a little too intently on his finger work, and then lengthens his stride to continue towards the master suite.

Ali lets out a soft sigh and sets down the knife in her hand.  “Eli,” she says, and he raises his head to look at her.  “Why don’t you go find John and play video games until it’s time for dinner.”

He gets up, casting a worried glance down the hall.  “Will Dad be okay?”

She smiles, putting as much reassurance in it as she can.  “Edge said he had a bad day, that’s all.  I’ll talk to him.”

His face smooths out and he vanishes up the stairs without further prompting.  She listens for a moment, hearing the occasional thud and slam from Bono’s direction, then returns her attention to dinner.  

Ali sets the table - a task she would normally delegate to one of the boys, but she’s more interested in keeping a quiet space just now.  She checks on the meat that’s browning, judges it done and drains it.  She’s stirring it into the sauce when Bono makes his way back into the kitchen, sans coat and messenger bag.  

He pulls out his chair at the head of the table and sits, the actions less showy and noisy now, but still underlaid with an abruptness that says the anger isn’t fully dissipated yet.  He sits back with a gusty sigh, right hand going up to rub at his elbow.

Ali gathers a couple of painkillers and a glass of water, and sets them in front of him without comment before returning to the stove.  On the edge of her gaze she sees him scowl at the pills.  She knows what he wants, but until he lets go of the anger she’s not willing to engage.  She studies him discreetly while she drops the pasta in, and gives the sauce a stir.  A few minutes pass with Bono glaring at the pills, the tiny symbols of his disability, before he finally reaches out and swallows them.  The tension begins to seep out of him almost immediately, an unconscious surrender.

Then, “Where did Eli go?”

There’s no longer any sign of hostility, and she smiles a little.  “He and John are playing video games until dinner.”

“I chased him away, eh?”

Ali keeps her voice neutral.  “It didn’t seem like the sort of thing you wanted to hear just then.”

He sighs.  “I suppose not.”  He raises his left hand to pick up his fork, and attempts to maneuver it into a proper hold.  It falls from his fingers with a clatter, and Bono shoves it away with a frustrated sound.  It skitters across the table and falls to the floor.

She abandons dinner and steps over to him, dropping a kiss on top of his head.  “Bono.  You will heal.  It will just take more time.  You know this.”  She takes his hand and sits down next to him.

“I’m just so tired of this fucking useless claw.”  He closes his eyes and slumps back.  His first few fingers tighten around hers.  “Can’t hold your hand properly.  Can’t form a single goddamn chord.  And the band couldn’t care less.”

She barely restrains an eye-roll over the hyperbole, but at least they’re getting somewhere.  “Bono.”

He stews for a couple of minutes, and she mentally checks the status of dinner prep.  “It’s like my parts were never there, Ali.  And I know it’s always been kind of a joke, that they never needed me to play, but now it _feels_ like a joke.”

Her eyebrows draw together; while it’s no secret that Bono’s guitar is somewhat superfluous when they’re performing, she can’t imagine Adam, Larry, or Edge being cruel about it.  “They said that?”

“No,” he grumbles.  “There was just… no discussion about it at all.  Just, Here’s the new arrangement, sounds as good as ever, don’t worry about another guitar, Dallas has it covered.”

“They probably thought they were being diplomatic by not drawing attention to it.”

“But it’s not as good!” Bono exclaims.  “It’s not as good, and I can’t show them why not, because I can’t play!  I can’t demonstrate a chord, or a cue, or get these sounds out that are in my head.  Words are so… cumbersome and useless, it’s like trying to describe color to a blind person!”  He scrubs his good hand through his hair, yanking on it irritably.

There’s a slow spreading heaviness in her chest as she understands more completely what he’s lost.  The individual elements of his abilities she can comprehend and quantify, but then there are times when she realizes what it all _means_.  Carefully, she lifts his hand and presses her lips to it.  “I’m sorry, Bono.”

He stares hard at the table, fingers locked in his hair.  For a moment, the only sound is his breathing, harsh and loud in the stillness of the room.  She waits, her cheek against the back of his hand, feeling the stiff fingers brushing unfeeling against her own.

“How am I supposed to write,” he whispers, the words strangled and thin, “when I can’t even-” He breaks off, and she shifts around next to him, pulling him against her tightly.  She can feel the minute tremors under his skin, the rise and fall of his chest as he fights with himself, and she struggles to keep her own voice steady as she murmurs reassuring nonsense in his ear.

God, she wishes she could do more; she hates this helplessness, this battle against an intangible enemy.  And she can form arguments, logical statements of hope, reasoning that things will not always be as bad as they are now - but those are of no comfort when her husband is hurting.  

It’s several minutes before Bono’s breathing smoothes out, the tension slowly fading under her hands.  He’s leaning against her now, and she holds him close, finding that she needs a moment of her own to regain her bearings.  Finally, she takes a deep breath and pushes back a little, brushing her fingers down the back of Bono’s neck.

“Have you talked to Edge about this?” she asks quietly.

Bono shakes his head and sits up a bit, running a hand down his face.

“You know he’ll want to help.”

“I know.”  His voice is hoarse, and he clears his throat roughly.

“Okay.”  She keeps her fingers stroking rhythmically against his back, the contact soothing.

An abrupt hiss and sizzle sounds behind them, and they both jump, Ali whipping around to see the pasta boiling over.

“Oh, balls,” she says, jumping up and rushing to pull the pot off the burner.  She sighs as she inspects the contents: the noodles overly swollen and clumping together.  

Bono steps up behind her and touches her back.  “Is it ruined?” he asks, and seems to read the answer on her face.  “I’m sorry, Ali.  Let me order in for us.”

She’s sorely tempted for a moment, but realizes a distraction might be just what they need.  She inspects the sauce - a bit scorched on bottom, but salvageable.

“Thank you, but no.”  She pulls up a grin to give to him.  “I have more pasta.  You just get to help me with the rest of it.”

He raises his eyebrows.  “I don’t know that the end result will be any better.”

“Stir the sauce.  I have faith in you.”  She places a spoon in his hand and puts him to work.

***

It is a dreary sort of day, the kind where the air is damp and chill, and even the mid-afternoon sun feels like evening.  It is, Edge thinks, a perfect Irish winter weekend.  He listens to the crackle from the fireplace and shifts further into the embrace of the couch, letting out a contented sigh.  Morleigh grins up at him from where her head rests on his lap, and he can’t resist reaching out to trace where the fire highlights her curls with gold.

Re-settled now, Morleigh returns her attention to her book, and Edge does the same.  The quiet is an oasis of peace, and Edge will use every opportunity to refresh himself before taking on the upcoming weeks of ever-increasing chaos.

His phone vibrates, and he frowns at the interruption, reaching over to check the display.  It’s a text from Ali, and he swipes the screen to reveal it.

What he sees makes him smile, and after a moment Morleigh asks, “What is it?” staring up at him again with a bemused grin.

He turns the phone to show her, and she breaks into a full smile herself.  It’s a photo of Bono, in his favorite worn recliner, clad in his dressing gown and surrounded by newspapers and magazines.  He is softly lit from the window, the angle such that his glasses are nearly transparent.  He is sound asleep, head tilted to the side and mouth slightly open, a copy of _Time_ resting awkwardly against his chest.

Edge takes the phone back and looks at the image more closely, wanting to run his fingers through the soft hair at Bono’s temple, to find a pillow and prop up his head before he gets a crick in his neck.  Or better yet, to simply take Bono to bed, where they can curl up together and doze.

One more week, he tells himself.  He snaps a picture of his book, held open in his hand with the fireplace in the background, Morleigh’s hair peeking into the bottom of the frame, and sends it to Ali.  In the meantime, he has this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the missed update! I was doing the final read-through before posting when the story suddenly insisted I change the direction of a scene - which had implications for all the remaining chapters. It took a few days to get it all right, but I think it will be a better story for it. :) Thanks to [dreamsofspike](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/pseuds/dreamsofspike) for helping me talk it all out!

The single lamp provides just enough light for her to read by, a soft amber glow that falls away just beyond the pages of her book.  The house is quiet; it was dark in the boys’ rooms when she had walked past earlier, and the shower in the master had shut off a few minutes before.  The opportunity to relax in the small sitting room while the day draws to a close, knowing her boys are with her and safe, is one of her favorite things.

The door to the master bedroom opens, and she gives Bono a smile as he steps out, his face bare and dressing gown wrapped around him.  He doesn’t return it, and she can see the tired lines in his face as he comes over and slides to his knees beside her.

His head falls to rest against her thigh, and she drops a hand to his hair, the movement instinctive and automatic.  The strands are still damp under her fingers, and she scratches through them gently, feeling his chest expand against her calf as he sighs.  A hand closes around her ankle, warm fingers gripping skin chilled by the night air, and as he turns his face into her she gets the distinct impression that he is hanging on.

Her book is still open, but her attention is no longer on it as she keeps up the rhythmic motion of her fingers.  When Bono comes to her like this, she is reminded of when they were teenagers: him coming apart at the seams with passion and angst, hiding from their peers behind popularity and charm.  She had always been the exception, undeceived by his charisma; but instead of distancing himself, he’d drawn closer to her.  The years have made him less volatile and angry, more confident, more at peace with himself; yet he’s never stopped seeking her out in moments like these, when the noise in his head gets too loud.

Tonight, however, she can’t tell if her presence is helping.  He is still turned into her, his grip too firm to be relaxed, breath harsh where his nose pushes against her leg.  She can’t see his face from his position at her feet, but she can feel the underlying tension where his body presses against hers.  

There’s the impulse to do something, to take some action in order to disrupt whatever Bono’s mind is fixated on, but it is there that she stumbles: she can know that he needs someone to break through and take control, but any attempt to do it always gets caught up in her own uncertainty about how.  Her strength has always been providing a safe haven for him; it is Edge who can push him outside of himself.

So she stays, and strokes his hair until it is dry and soft, until his shoulders begin to relax and his fingers fall loose against her ankle.  She stays until the thoughts in his head seem to lose their traction, and his focus shifts outward enough for him to press a kiss against where the robe covers her leg.  Then she stands and helps him to his feet, concealing a smile at the dramatic groan as his knees protest the movement.

Then she leads him to their bed, and holds him until sleep comes.

***

“We should be playing this in both sets.”

The last echo of _Joey Ramone_ is still hanging in the air, and Edge resists the urge to close his eyes.  In his peripheral vision he sees Larry’s jaw clench, but it’s Adam who engages.

“I thought we decided we were doing two completely different sets?  You know, ‘completely different’ implying there is no similarity?”

Bono cuts a look in Adam’s direction, clearly not appreciating the sarcasm.  “It’s the hit, and it’s the lead track on the album, if there’s any song that a new person is going to know, it’s this one.  We should do it for both sets.”

“B, if a new person only got one song into the album, they aren’t going to be at the show,” Edge points out, reasonably enough, he thinks.  But the expression Bono turns on him is wounded, and Edge holds back a sigh.  He doesn’t actually disagree with Bono’s point, but they’re hours into the day without much to show for it, because every song they’ve run through has become a point of exhaustive discussion.  It’s not notably different from their usual rehearsal process, so Edge is having difficulty identifying why it’s causing tension; he only knows that it is.

He thinks he can push this one forward, though.  “We already have the acoustic arrangement, let’s run through it once and dust it off, and we can revisit the idea later.”

Larry and Adam don’t look thrilled, but nobody argues, and after they switch out their instruments Bono launches into the vocal easily enough.  The electric version of the song, thanks to the aborted promotional stint the previous fall, is already the most comfortable of all the new material, and the acoustic is a close cousin to it.  But midway through the first verse, Bono breaks in with an adjustment.

Edge goes with it; he realizes immediately that even though he’d genuinely intended for them to run through it once and move on, expecting Bono to treat it any differently is an exercise in futility.  Another adjustment, and another; Edge can see Adam’s shoulders growing tight and Larry’s mouth becoming ever more grim.  

“No, Edge, loop that again, see-” Bono listens while Edge does as he requests, but he shakes his head.  “No, that’s not it, I want you to get a little crunchier, dirtier…” Edge makes another attempt, but Bono’s mouth tightens.  “It’s not right.  This song is about punk, Edge, it needs to really get gritty.”

Edge looks down at the acoustic guitar in his hands with a brief feeling of despair. “Bono-”

“Let’s back up a couple of bars and try again.”

When they finally conclude the song and finish the inevitable debrief, Edge says, “I think it’s time for a break.”

Larry immediately sets down his drumsticks and pulls out his in-ears.  Adam is pulling his bass strap over his head even as Bono says, “We need to run through it one more time.”

Edge turns to him and locks their gazes.  “No, Bono.  We are taking a break.”  He pulls off his own guitar and sets it on its stand, his movements efficient and decisive.

Bono’s jaw sets and Edge can see the bullheadedness coming on, but Adam and Larry are no fools and are already disappearing through the door.  Bono’s glare settles on Edge, anger laced with betrayal.  “What the hell, Edge?”  he demands.  “We were in the middle of the fucking song!”

Edge looks back calmly, trying to tamp down his own frustration.  “I know,” he says, “but we weren’t going to get any further with it today.”

“We fucking well are not if you’re going to pull the plug on it like that!”  He raises his hands abruptly, as if to push them through his hair, then gasps and aborts the movement when he raises his arm too high.  Edge takes a step forward automatically, but Bono’s foot lashes out, sending a music stand crashing to the ground, paper flying everywhere.  “Goddammit!” Bono shouts, spinning away and clutching at his elbow.

The urge to go to him is almost irresistible, but Edge holds himself back, giving the spike of anger and pain a chance to fade before he approaches.  He keeps his eyes on Bono’s back, watching until his breathing goes from shallow to deep, and then walks over.

Bono shrugs off the hand Edge puts on his back, but the gesture is half-hearted, so Edge simply raises it again, pressing gently at the small of his back and guiding him towards an amp.  “Sit,” Edge says softly, pleased when Bono does with no argument.  He touches Bono’s cheek, approving, then steps away to retrieve a bottle of water, twisting the cap off as he returns and hands it over.  

Bono drinks about half of it before giving it back to Edge, who caps it and sets it on the floor.  “Do you need any painkillers?”  He keeps his tone matter-of-fact, with no suggestion that the lack thereof is the cause of Bono’s earlier behavior, even though Edge wonders if that is the case.

But Bono shakes his head. “Just pulled it too far,” he says, voice quiet.

“Okay.”  Edge puts his hand on Bono’s head, just resting it there, and looks down to see Bono’s eyes close.  Bono takes a deep breath, the inhale pushing his head into Edge’s hand, and then releases it, the tension starting to seep out of his body.  Edge stays silent, letting Bono calm.

He’s not sure what is driving Bono’s behavior; certainly, being mercurial and perfectionistic is not out of character, but Bono also respects the process that the four of them have established in rehearsals.  The previous week had started off very well - all of them glad to be sharing the room together, running through songs and discussing changes in broad strokes.  But as one week rolled into the next, there had been a slow escalation of focus, Bono driving them harder and harder.  The sessions were no longer as productive as Edge would have liked, and now frustration has taken over on all fronts.  

“The song does need more work,” he says after several moments of silence, his voice level and calm, “if we choose to use it.  We haven’t decided that yet.”  He pauses, but Bono says nothing.  “I thought we were all using this time to get us back in rhythm as a band, to all get going in the same direction and figure out what we need to work on.  Maybe I made some bad assumptions.”

Bono leans forward a bit, pressing his head into Edge’s hand, and Edge tightens his fingers.  “We don’t have enough time,” he says.  “We have so much to do, and there’s not enough time.”

Edge frowns a little.  While in some respects that’s true - they’ve never once felt like they’ve had enough time - the scheduled rehearsal falls within their normal timeframe.  “We have nearly ten weeks, B,” he reminds him.  “I’m sure we’ll use every minute of it, but we’ll be ready.”

Bono makes a disbelieving sound.  “Not if I can barely function.”

Edge thinks he understands a bit more, then.  “Hey,” he says firmly, tugging at Bono’s hair and tilting his face up.  He can see hints of red in Bono’s eyes behind the tint of the glasses, the lines around them etched deep.  He softens his voice.  “You are healing as fast as any of us could’ve hoped for.  You have done amazing work, B.  You’re not quite ready yet, and neither is the band, but we’ll all get there.”  He leans down and kisses him softly.  “You’ve never given up on anything in your life.  I know you.  You’ve got this.”

When Edge straightens, Bono leans forward until his forehead rests against Edge’s stomach, and Edge slides his hand down to cup the back of Bono’s neck.  They just breathe quietly for a bit, and while Edge knows the storm isn’t over, he hopes they’ve found some peace.  Bono’s head grows heavier, causing Edge to brace himself against the added weight, and he’s caught by a wave of tenderness as he looks down at the dark head.  Even when they were young, he’d felt a need to protect his friend, standing by to pick up the pieces every time Bono flung himself headfirst into some crazy idea.  But the voluntary trust of his lover moves him on a fundamental level.

“Can I have some more water?”  Bono’s voice is unfocused and tired, and Edge smiles.  The bottle is within reach at Bono’s feet, but he’s pleased at the implicit reliance in the request.  He bends and retrieves the bottle, and Bono blinks as he accepts it and drains the water.  Watching him, Edge recognizes that he should have been paying more attention to just how much energy Bono has been expending - no more than usual for rehearsal, but he has failed to truly factor in how Bono’s injury and subsequent convalescence are affecting him.  But he’s also starting to realize there’s more at work than simple tiredness.  Bono is so free with his feelings so much of the time, Edge has fallen into the trap of forgetting that he’s very good at hiding the most important things.  

“I’m going to get us some food,” Edge says, “and I’ll let Larry and Adam know to be back in an hour.  I want you to lie down on the sofa until I get back.”

There’s a moment where Edge can see a protest begin to form, but it dies when he brushes his thumb against Bono’s cheekbone.  “Pad thai?” he says instead, and Edge smiles.

“And duck curry,” he agrees.  “I’ll be back soon.”

***

Ali slips out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.  Not that it likely matters; she knows she can stay right beside him and Bono will sleep through her phone call.  “He’s exhausted, Edge.”

There’s a sigh from the other end of the line.  “I know.  And he’s working himself up so much, he’ll never take a day off, even though he probably needs it.”

“And you’re just getting started.  I don’t know how he’s going to keep up once you all go to France.”  It’s a thought that’s been troubling her for the past several days, as the band’s time in Dublin grows rapidly to a close.

“I’ve been thinking about that.  I’m going to get Willie in on it, and Dennis, so that we keep getting strategically interrupted by meetings and get Bono off his feet from time to time.”

“You’re a genius.”

“We’ll see.  If he’s tired, he won’t be able to concentrate at the meetings, and he’ll hate that.  So it could backfire.”

She sinks onto the couch.  “Well, something’s got to give, sooner or later.”

“At this point, I don’t know if he’s more worn out from his injury or his anxiety.  I haven’t see him like this in a long time, Ali.”

“I know.”  She leans back and closes her eyes.  “But you know how he is; he doesn’t want to disappoint anybody.”

There’s silence for a beat, and then Edge says, “God, it’s really that simple, isn’t it?”

She almost laughs.  She feels tired.  “It seems that way once you say it out loud, doesn’t it?”  

“I’m an idiot.”

“Don’t be absurd, it’s not like he’d tell you.  After all, you’re the person he’s most afraid of disappointing.”

“God.”

“Mm.”  She knows that, on some level, none of this is a surprise; yet it’s so fundamental, she had initially - perhaps willfully - overlooked it.  The difficulty with this particular trait of Bono’s is how completely it leaves him at the mercy of other people, and it has taken her many years to learn what she can and cannot protect him from. 

There is very little she can protect him from here.

Edge blows out a long breath on the other end of the line.  She listens and waits for him to arrive at the same conclusions she has: that currently the weight of expectation on Bono is coming from the band, the fans, media, promoters, and the entire U2 touring apparatus.  It’s the inevitable effect of an impending tour, and something they’ve both seen before to varying degrees, but the current circumstances have brought the stress to another level.

An idea begins to form in her mind, a means of helping that is still in her power.  “I have a suggestion.”  She speaks slowly, then hesitates, considering the implications more fully. 

Edge makes a curious noise.  Ali deliberates for a moment longer, then breathes in, committing to the idea.  “I think you and Bono should go to France a couple of days early.  I think some time alone with you would help him.”

“Ali.”  Edge’s voice is soft, and she firms her jaw against the rebuttal she knows is coming.  “Those are your last couple of days together.  Are you sure?”

It’s the gentleness in his tone that makes her throat tighten, and she feels a flash of irritation at herself, because she’s sure, dammit, and she’s not trying to be a martyr here.  “Yes, I am,” she says, and her voice comes out low and hoarse, but not strangled.  “I can’t do anything for him, Edge, not with this.  But you can.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and she prays he doesn’t argue.  Part of her heart is crying at the thought of losing those last days, but if this is the one thing she can do to help, she’s going to do it.

“Okay,” Edge says, and she releases a shaky breath.  “I’ll talk to Morleigh, and if she agrees, I’ll ask Bono.”

There’s relief at his words, an almost physical weight disappearing from her being, followed immediately by an incredible weariness.  Ali leans forward and rubs a hand over her face.  “Thank you,” she says softly.

“Ali.  Thank _you_.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

It starts with a flower delivery at noon, and a note: _7pm tonight, wear something nice.  - B_

Promptly at seven a town car arrives at the house; she gets in and is driven to the city center, and as they approach she recognizes where they are going.  She’s only in the biting wind for a moment as she steps from the car into the high-rise, the doorman greeting her by name.  

The restaurant occupies the top level of the building, and the hostess escorts her through the dimly lit floor until they reach the private dining room.  Bono is already inside, along with Edge, standing at the glass wall that showcases a sweeping view of the Liffey and Dublin at night.  

Her husband beams when he sees her, stepping over and pressing a soft kiss to her lips, hand sliding around her back.  “You look absolutely stunning, my love,” he murmurs, his eyes warm and appreciative as if he hasn’t seen her in this dress a dozen times before.  

Of Bono’s many charms, his sincerity is her favorite.  “Thank you,” she says, not holding back her smile.  “You’ve cleaned up pretty well, yourself.”  The black-on-black suit he’s wearing is a far cry from what he went to rehearsal in that morning, though he’s shed any tie there might have been and undone the top few buttons of his shirt.  

Edge, however, is in a sports coat over his button-down and dark jeans, and he shakes his head as he approaches, a small grin on his lips.  “I see I’m the only one who didn’t get adequate warning about proper clothes,” he says, cutting a good-natured glare at Bono.  He presses a kiss to Ali’s cheek.  “You look lovely.”

“It didn’t occur to me that you wouldn’t have time to go home after rehearsal!” Bono protests.  “And you look very handsome, The Edge.”

“If we weren’t in the private room I think they would’ve thrown me out,” Edge confides as Bono steps towards a cocktail table, where a bottle of wine is chilling.

Bono scowls. “They know better than that.”  Edge’s eyes twinkle at Ali, making her laugh, and Bono’s irritated façade disappears into a smile.

There’s no sign of the unease that’s been hanging over Bono all week, and Ali feels lighter for it, allowing herself to fully relax into the evening. It’s a relatively rare event for just the three of them to be together, and likely their last opportunity for months; she welcomes the chance to let go of the worries and let Bono spoil them.

He pours the wine and gestures them closer, until they’ve formed a loose circle by the window, where the lights of the city sparkle at their feet. Bono hands them each a glass, then raises his. “I would like to make a toast,” he says grandly, as if he were addressing a stadium instead of an audience of two. Then his eyes find theirs, and suddenly the space becomes intimate, encompassing just the three of them. “To my wife and my husband.” His smile is audible, warmth and love overflowing in his gaze. “You are the two people I love most in the world. You have cared for me when I was weakest, and are responsible for making me strong.” The smile becomes a little tremulous, but his voice doesn’t waver. “You deserve more than I could ever give you, but there is no doubt you have all of me.”

There is a lump in her throat that makes it difficult to swallow, but she leans in and kisses him, smiling as she pulls back.  “I love you,” she says, simple and true, “and I am so incredibly proud of you.  You are going to set the world on fire.  Again.”

His eyes spark with anticipation, the corners crinkling with visible pleasure.  She realizes that this is the first time in awhile that she’s felt nothing but excitement from him about the tour; she hopes it’s a sign of what’s to come.

Edge is shifting on his feet, looking a little uncomfortable in the face of such declarations.  Ali allows herself a moment of amusement; after so many decades of Bono, he should be used to such things by now.  Then he clears his throat and lifts his own glass.  “To Bono,” he says. “You have overcome every obstacle ever set before you, and you will do it again.”  He meets Bono’s eyes.  “Even at the times I’ve lost faith in everything else, I’ve never lost faith in you.”

Bono blinks, uncharacteristically speechless as they take their drinks, and Edge smiles softly.  Then he turns and raises his glass again. “To Ali, my dear friend and sister, and the most generous soul I’ve ever known.”  His moss-green eyes are warm and sparkling.  “Thank you for allowing me to share your marriage.”

She gives him a kiss and a long hug, and he whispers in her ear, “Maybe we’ve dispensed of all the sentiment now, yeah?” and she laughs.

*

They’ve just finished the bottle of wine when the door opens, and a server appears with salads and another bottle.  She arranges the plates and then vanishes, and Edge raises an eyebrow at Bono.  “I don’t recall seeing a menu.”

“That’s because I already know what you want.” Bono leers playfully, and Edge shakes his head while Ali laughs and gives Bono a gentle smack.  He catches her hand and kisses it, all teasing falling away.  “Actually, I am more interested in spending uninterrupted time with you both than in choosing a meal, so they have already been chosen.”

He puts his hand on Ali’s back and guides her to the table, and Edge can read the deference and respect as he performs the simple actions of pulling out the chair and getting her settled.  Edge smiles as he moves towards his own seat, but Bono gets there first, eyes lowered as he pulls out Edge’s chair.

Heat flashes through Edge at the reverential manner, stirring desires that he’s been suppressing for months.  Feeling compelled to reward, he reaches out and touches Bono’s chin, inhaling when those eyes meet his with barely restrained want.  A slow smile curves Bono’s lips as he watches Edge, and Edge is tempted to start something right then.  But instead, he merely says, “Thank you, B.”

Once Edge is seated, Bono slides into the chair between him and Ali, the space somewhat tighter than traditionally necessary, especially considering the round table could easily accommodate twice as many people.  As Edge reaches for his fork, he realizes the place settings are just the slightest bit haphazard - an unforgivable offense in a restaurant such as this one.  Then, it dawns on him: Bono, the first to arrive, must have rearranged the table to his liking, placing them all within easy reach of each other.  He drops a hand to Bono’s thigh, squeezing gently in approval, and Bono smiles.

Bono pours more wine for them all, and Edge realizes how much he’s enjoying this; watching Bono hold court is hardly novel, but it’s less common for it to be just the three of them, in a setting like this where there’s a certain amount of freedom.  And to be the focus of Bono’s charm is a powerful thing that even he is susceptible to.  

The entrees come out just as they’re finishing their salads, and Bono thanks the server and tells her they won’t be needing anything else.  Edge looks at the delicious-smelling whitefish before him and has to admit that Bono has orchestrated this night almost perfectly, Edge’s insufficient wardrobe notwithstanding.  Bono had ordered steak, and Edge watches surreptitiously to see if he will need any assistance, but he deftly positions his fork with two hands and digs in with no problems.  As Edge looks up he sees Ali has been doing the same thing, and they share a smile before starting in on their own meals.

Things are quieter as they eat, taking in the Dublin skyline and making the occasional comment about the food.  It’s a good end to the week; rehearsals had finished without further incident, though Edge is still concerned about the low-grade anxiety he can feel coming off Bono most of the time.  Tonight is a refreshing change, however; Bono seems to have put the worry aside and is much more his normal, cheerful, talkative self.  He listens as Bono tells Ali about the latest concepts for the stage, the floating light bars on City of Blinding Lights, and how he’ll be running into the wind down Cedarwood Road.

By the time their plates are mostly empty, and the wine finished off, the live band in the main restaurant has begun to play.  Seized by a whim probably inspired by the wine, Edge gets up and pulls Ali to her feet, leading her around the table to a small open space to dance.  They do a little swing step, Ali somewhat better than he, and they laugh with each other when he steps on her toes.  Then there’s a tap on his shoulder and Bono cuts in, taking Ali away and dancing rather better for the remainder of the song.  

Then the band transitions into something slower, and Bono gestures Edge over.  Hands fall on waists as they pull each other closer, and the three of them sway together in a makeshift slow-dance.

Then Ali slips away, leaving a space between Bono and Edge.  Edge feels a moment of uncertainty, and then he takes Bono’s other hand in his, pulling him in as they settle back into the rhythm of the song.  Bono steps into him without hesitation, his head falling to Edge’s shoulder and body melting against his, as if this was what he wanted all along.  Edge gathers him close and presses his face to Bono’s neck, breathing him in, then looks up to see Ali smiling at them.  He tries to communicate his thanks with his eyes, and her smile warms.  He wants to tell her that he’ll take care of him, but he thinks she already knows.

 

***

 

“Please inform me why we are not taking the jet.”

Bono eyes their fellow first-class passengers with something like distaste, though Edge knows it has far more to do with the lack of privacy than any fault with their surroundings.  Even if this “first class” cabin merely means seats large enough to no longer be considered torture devices.

“Because patience is a virtue, B.”

“Are you accusing me of lacking in virtue?”  There is a gleeful note to Bono’s voice, and he leans in to whisper, “I assure you that’s one of my best qualities.”

Only a long history with Bono’s flirtations keeps Edge from responding, and he carefully ignores his companion as he settles in with a magazine that he has no intention of reading.  The flight to Nice is only two and a half hours, and Edge intends to use it.  

Bono is predictably hyperactive, flirting with the flight attendant and shifting restlessly in his seat.  He flips through every item in the seat-back pocket in the time between the safety announcements and takeoff, then stares out the window to watch the city fall away.  Once there is only the sea and clouds beneath them, he leans in to read over Edge’s shoulder.  The occasional long sigh is released in a blatant play for attention, and when they reach cruising altitude, Edge sets his plan into motion.

He calls the flight attendant and requests a glass of wine; when it arrives, he offers it to Bono and says, “Drink this.”

Bono raises an eyebrow at him - it’s morning still, a bit early even for them to begin drinking - but accepts the glass and takes a sip.  Edge watches, and prompts for another when it seems Bono would put the wine down.  He can see Bono’s curiosity increasing, but he obeys, consuming half the glass.

Edge nods his approval.  “When you’re done, I want you to take a nap.”

Bono sets the glass down, turning a betrayed look on him.  “I’m not a child, Edge.”

“You are not,” Edge agrees.  “But you’ll need your energy.”

Bono’s eyes narrow, and Edge can see him struggle between his irritation and the anticipation of what Edge is promising.  Edge looks back at him calmly, and after a long moment Bono breaks his gaze, stiffly raising the glass to his lips for another sip.  “Will you talk to me?” he asks, not looking away from the seat in front of him.

“Yes.”

Some of the tension leaves him then, and the rest of the wine goes down easier.  Edge directs him to pull down the window shade, then lean his seat back, and Bono arranges himself so his head is cradled in the corner between his seat and Edge’s upright one.  

Edge leans his head so that his lips are positioned just by Bono’s ear.  “Close your eyes, love,” he whispers, and slides his hand under the armrest to tangle their fingers together, out of sight.  “Listen to the sound of the plane.  That constant hum.  It drowns out everything else.”  He watches Bono’s chest rise and fall, then begins to match their breathing, inhaling and exhaling audibly.  When they’re in sync, he changes the pattern to be deeper, more regular.  “The vibration makes me think of music, you know?  Like Adam just hit this fat note that goes on and on and on.”  

Edge keeps talking, knowing that if he can get Bono’s mind to stop spinning, it won’t take long before his adrenaline will crash and his ability to sleep anywhere will win out.  The enthusiasm that’s taken Bono over in the last few days has been welcome, but exhausting in its own right.  Over the next ten minutes, he observes the way Bono’s face goes from careful stillness to true relaxation, mouth falling open a little as it loses its fight with gravity, and his breathing settles into the regular rhythm of sleep. 

Edge rubs his thumb against the back of Bono’s hand, resisting the urge to press a kiss to his temple.  It’s a bit of a struggle to keep himself calm; now that their time together is almost within reach, Edge can no longer ignore the anticipation running hot under his skin.  Taking a deep breath, he blows it out slowly; he can’t allow himself to get carried away with something so important.  He needs to be patient, he needs to play this right.  

 *

Upon arriving at the hotel, they are greeted by their host and handed their keys.  They decline the offer to be escorted to their rooms, and as they ride the elevator to the top floor, Edge takes one of Bono’s keys.  

“Don’t I get one of yours?” Bono asks, already reaching out as if to pluck it from his hands.

“No.”  It takes a second, but Bono’s hand stills and then drops, and he looks at Edge with startled eyes.  Edge watches him steadily, fighting back a smile at Bono’s expression.  “You will have to earn it.”

That immediately wins him a wicked grin.  “Oh, is that so?”  Bono closes the space between them and leans in to murmur,  “And what requirements might you have in mind, The Edge?”

They arrive at their floor before Edge has an opportunity to answer, the doors parting for them with a soft _ding_.  He steps out and turns left, towards Bono’s penthouse, and it’s only when they reach the door that Edge speaks again.  “You will take a shower, and then eat a snack.”  He slides the key into the lock and pushes the door open.

Bono steps inside, then turns back to Edge, his face an endearing combination of bafflement and anticipation.  “And then what?”

“I’ll tell you.”  And he shuts the door.

His own room is adjacent to Bono’s, though the door is a good ways down the hall; in it he finds two fruit and cheese trays waiting for him, as well as a notecard and envelope.  He takes the stationary, a thick creamy paper embossed with the hotel’s name, and sits at the desk, where he scribes a list he had mentally composed on the plane.  He seals it in the envelope, and on the front, writes only: _B_

This accomplished, he gathers up one of the trays and goes back down the hall.  Letting himself into Bono’s suite, he hears the sound of the shower running, Bono’s voice soaring over the pounding water.  Smiling to himself, Edge goes into the bedroom and arranges the cheese tray and envelope on the dresser, as obvious a spot as he can find in the room.  Then, he turns to Bono’s luggage, the contents of the carry-on already strewn haphazardly around the room.  He spares a moment to be grateful that most of their luggage is traveling with the band gear; for a few days, at least, Bono’s mess will be limited.  Sorting through the various articles of clothing, Edge selects a long-sleeved button-down, and then considers jeans before opting for the finer material of slacks.  He lays the chosen items out neatly on the bed, and then gives the room one last look to make certain everything is in place.

Returning to his own suite, he turns his attention to settling in and preparing.  He unpacks his carryon, taking the time to consider how he wants to organize this space he will be occupying for the next several weeks, and making sure everything he’ll need over the next few hours is conveniently located.  

The suite is elegantly furnished and well laid out, early afternoon sun flooding it with light.  Edge takes a moment to admire the view of the Côte d’Azur, the mountainous coast giving way to the sparkling blue sea, yachts and sailboats dotting the vast expanse.  It’s an invigorating contrast to Dublin’s wet, dark winter, and Edge wants to soak it in, to lay naked with Bono as the sun streams over them.

It’s with reluctance that he steps away from the window and pulls the curtains, experimenting with the different weights until he finds the perfect combination: allowing a soft, almost dim light to push through, enough to see by but creating enough shadows to hide in.  He moves through the suite, adjusting curtains and lights until the open spaces start to feel smaller and less exposed, instead taking on the environment of a cocoon.  

When he is finally satisfied, he returns to the living area, eats off his own tray of food, and waits.


	6. Chapter 6

Perhaps thirty minutes have elapsed when there’s a knock, and Edge opens the door to reveal Bono.  Expectation hangs thick in the air as they look at each other, and Edge lets his gaze travel down his lover’s form.  Bono is wearing the black shirt and slacks Edge had chosen, the finely cut clothes flattering his body.  His face is naked and his feet are bare against the carpet, and Edge smiles.

“Come in,” he says, and stands aside.  Bono enters, his eyes lowering as he steps past Edge.  The flirtatiousness of earlier is gone.

“Stand over there.”  

Edge gestures Bono toward the smallest space he had found in the suite, a narrow wall adjacent to the bedroom that - until half an hour before - had showcased a vibrant watercolor still life.  Now Edge positions a different kind of art, brief touches guiding Bono where to stand, allowing the soft, designed light to highlight him better than it ever could an inanimate object.  “Did you get my note?”

“Yes.”  Bono’s voice is low, rough.

“Did you do everything I asked?”  He already knows the answer.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Bono shivers.

Edge stands before him, just studying him for a moment, then reaches up and traces Bono’s face: the lines framing his beloved eyes, the thin mobile lips, the stubble along his jaw.  The abrasions from his fall have long healed, the only sign of them a patch of skin a little smoother than the rest, and Edge runs his finger over it, memorizing the minute difference in texture.  Bono looks back at him, eyes impossibly blue without the barrier of the glasses, flickering across Edge’s face as if he can’t quite make himself hold Edge’s gaze.

It’s not quite the demeanor Edge was expecting, and he doesn’t look away as he runs his hands along Bono’s body, down his shoulders and chest, the fabric of Bono’s shirt falling like water under his fingers.  He notes the twitch when he brushes a sensitive nipple, the quick inhale when hands slide lightly down sides, then a flinch when he comes around to the soft belly. 

“Edge-”  Bono’s eyes drop, face turning away.

“Shh.”  He presses a soft kiss against Bono’s cheek, then sinks to his knees.  He runs his hands down to Bono’s legs, tracing the cut of his hipbones and the lines of his thighs, nothing but a thin layer of cloth between him and every inch of his partner.  His fingers follow over the bump of his kneecaps, down the curve of his calves and dip of his ankles, until he reaches Bono’s bare feet, and he draws his fingers lightly over the toes.  He can feel Bono’s gaze on him again, and stands; Bono’s eyes are dazed when they look back at him.  “Turn around.” 

Bono releases a small whimper as he faces the wall, and Edge pushes up behind him, crowding him in and inhaling against the back of his neck.  “Bono,” Edge breathes, unable to resist a moment of simple closeness, chest pressed to back.  This quiet compliance is pushing Edge’s buttons hard, and he inhales jaggedly before gathering himself.  Pressing a kiss to the base of Bono’s neck, he resumes his journey down Bono’s body: the curve of his back, the swell of his ass, and he can feel the muscles taut underneath his hands.

Bono is breathing hard as Edge turns him again, his mouth working with all the words he’s not allowed to give voice to, an obedience Edge is compelled to reward.  Edge kisses him, and Bono surges forward, mouth and hands urgent, hardness already present against Edge’s thigh.  Edge lets him go for a moment, soft sounds escaping from Bono as he pulls at Edge’s mouth; but Edge is far from finished, and eases himself back, ignoring Bono’s sound of protest.  He takes Bono’s hands from where they’ve settled on Edge’s hips, and presses his wrists against the wall.  “Stay,” he murmurs, trusting Bono to hold them there as Edge lets go and begins to unbutton Bono’s shirt.

Bono’s eyes fall, then, and when Edge goes to push the shirt apart, he moves almost reflexively to cover himself.  Edge stops, then takes his hands, seeking out Bono’s eyes.  “What is it?” 

Bono’s gaze skitters away again.  “I don’t look much like I once did, Reg.”

“I know,” Edge says, serious and quiet.  “Bono.  I want to learn how your body is now.”  He waits until Bono looks back at him.  “May I?”

A beat, then finally a nod.  Bono’s hands go back to the wall, and Edge holds his gaze as he pushes the shirt off his shoulders and lets it fall to the ground.  Bono releases a shuddering breath, and Edge gives him a small kiss as a reward.  “Thank you,” he says, and then lets his hands trace the same path as before, only this time on bare flesh.

To Edge’s eyes, there is not much that has changed - the forced inactivity has made him softer, but it’s the same fair, freckled skin and compact frame, wiry dark hair spreading across his chest.  Only the spiderweb of silvery scars on his left arm testify to the damage that has been done, and Edge traces along that shoulder with fingers and lips.  “Does it hurt?” he asks, pressing a kiss to Bono’s collarbone, then at the joint of his shoulder.

“Not right now,” Bono murmurs, a little more breathlessly than the action calls for.  “Only if I move it too far.”

Edge kisses down his bicep.  “You will tell me if I even come close to moving it too far.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”  Edge traces the thickest scar along his elbow, the long, straight line indicating that it’s the surgical one.  “Does this hurt?”

“Sometimes.  It aches.”

Edge presses a gentle kiss to it.  “When you move?”

“No.  It comes and goes.  I haven’t figured out why.”

He moves on to the next scar, and the next, learning about what hurt and what didn’t, filing the information away.  Then down to his fingers, giving equal attention to those without feeling as those with.  Then Edge moves to his other side, lavishing the same attention on his right arm, his chest, his belly.

Bono is trembling against him, and Edge looks up to see that his eyes have closed.  “Bono,” he says gently.  “Open your eyes.”  

He does, and the overwhelmed look when he meets Edge’s gaze drives Edge back to his feet.  Edge’s hands find his face, direct their eyes together.  “Bono,” Edge breathes, caught up in deep affection.  “Oh, B, you are so beautiful.”  

Bono’s breath falters, and he whispers, “Edge, _please_ ,” his voice cracking on the word.  He sounds wrecked, and Edge tightens his fingers. 

“What do you want?” he murmurs, nearly losing his own focus.

“Please let me touch you,” Bono says, his hands coming off the wall before he presses them back.  “Please, Edge, let me touch you, let me taste you.”  He rolls his face into Edge’s hands, their only point of contact.

“Yes,” Edge says, helpless to deny him, and Bono releases a soft cry as he brings his hands forward, finding Edge’s shirt and then burrowing underneath it, artlessly shoving it up to get at the skin underneath.  He drops to his knees, the _thud_ as they hit the carpeted floor causing a spike of concern, but Bono doesn’t seem to notice as he pushes his face into Edge’s belly.

Edge arches into the touch, his hands finding Bono’s hair as Bono’s mouth presses wetly into his skin.  Bono’s hands are on his fly, barely fumbling as he undoes the button and zipper, and Edge is suddenly, painfully aware of his own arousal.  He can feel the heat of Bono’s breath as his jeans are pushed halfway down his hips, and moans when Bono’s mouth finds him through his underwear.

The world narrows into sensation, the sudden friction of Bono’s tongue through thin cotton almost overwhelming.  The fabric prevents Bono from taking him in entirely, but he mouths determinedly at Edge’s length, the cloth growing damp and clinging.  Small, eager noises drift up, the vibrations causing Edge to shiver and press forward with his hips, wanting more.

Even as he does so, he knows that he can’t; today is not about him, not about taking the edge off with a quick blowjob.  Tightening his fingers in Bono’s hair, he draws in a deep breath and gently pushes Bono away, but Bono’s hand slides in to replace his mouth, sweet pressure of a palm wrapping around his dick.

Edge stifles a moan; he needs to get his control back, before Bono’s id convinces him to abandon his plans and just let Bono suck him off right here in the living room.  He forces himself to take a step back, Bono resisting the movement, and he runs his hands down Bono’s forearms until he can pull Bono away from his hips.

“What-” Bono protests, and his eyes are wild, heartbreakingly desperate, and Edge almost gives in.  But as much as Bono wants, this is not what he needs. 

“Shh.”  Edge tightens his fingers around Bono’s, resisting against Bono’s attempts to reach out to him.  He huffs out a breath, fighting for his own control.  “Be still, B.”

Bono makes a plaintive sound, and Edge squeezes again.  “Be still,” he repeats, making his voice calm and firm around his own breathlessness.  He can barely look at him, Bono on his knees with his face turned up and pleading.  “Stand up,” he says roughly, knowing that’s his only hope to making it through this.  There’s a beat of hesitation, and Edge almost repeats himself, but then Bono is obeying, using Edge’s hands as leverage.

Once they’re at a level with each other, Edge steps close again.  He wants to push Bono’s arms behind his back, restrain him, comfort him by removing the immediate temptation to touch, but he knows instinctively that position is not an option.  Instead, he brings Bono’s hands together, guiding his right hand above his left.  “Hold on,” he says, and there’s a moment of reluctance, but then Bono clasps his left wrist in his hand, becoming his own restraint.  “Good, B.”

Bono’s breathing is still heavy, body swaying towards Edge even as his hands stay where Edge positioned them.  Edge runs his palms down Bono’s chest, and Bono breathes out, “Edge, _please_.”

Edge steps back, pulling his hands away even as Bono’s voice makes heat course through him.  He must have control of himself before he can ask Bono to yield to him.  He makes his voice hard.  “I said to be quiet.”

Bono shudders, and Edge sees him catch the “I’m sorry” before he can verbalize it.  He drops his gaze, which was not Edge’s intention, so he reaches out and tips Bono’s face up, taking in the dazed want in those blue eyes.  “Good.”

He finally reaches for Bono’s slacks, undoing the fly and carefully pushing them off Bono’s hips until they fall to the floor; as instructed, there is nothing underneath.  Bono’s hands, as positioned, are an unintentional shield to his groin, only allowing glimpses of a dark thatch of hair and half-erect cock as he steps out of the pants.  Edge goes to his knees again, hands settling against the top of Bono’s ass as he presses his face in the cut of Bono’s hip and breathes in.  Bono shivers against him, and Edge presses a kiss into the juncture of his hip, his tongue teasing the sensitive flesh.

Edge lets his fingers drift slowly down the crease of Bono’s ass, and there’s a swift inhale as Bono shifts, widening his stance.  Edge doesn’t take the invitation, however, instead stroking his fingers against Bono’s inner thighs, then down the backs of his knees, all the while sucking tiny marks into the thin flesh under his tongue.  He can feel Bono’s hands trembling where they brush against his face, smell the musk beginning to come up through the clean scent of soap.  He wants to move in closer, to push Bono’s hands aside and take him into his mouth, taste and tease until Bono is writhing against the wall, and no command of silence would be able to keep him from begging to come.  Edge exhales sharply, shifting against the discomfort of his own restrictive clothes, and allows himself one kiss against the base of Bono’s cock before pushing himself to his feet.

“Go in the bedroom,” he says, his own voice hoarse as if he actually had taken Bono down his throat.  “Lie on the bed and wait for me.”

He doesn’t watch as Bono obeys, closing his eyes and breathing deeply to get himself back under control.  It’s a few minutes before he feels centered again, and then he methodically strips off his own clothes, from his cap down to his shoes, taking the time to fold the clothes and set everything neatly on a nearby table.

He’s not quite sure what he’ll find when he enters the bedroom - Bono’s in a different headspace than what he had anticipated, yielding and sensitive to correction.  Edge had entered into this scene thinking to use discipline and structure to get him out of his head, but Bono’s compliance is awing him, imperfect but so willing.  And for all his carefully laid plans, he’s managed to underestimate the effect Bono has on him; has given up far more ground than he anticipated.  The combination is making him reevaluate what Bono needs, and he hopes he can adapt in spite of the distraction of his own body.  Focusing himself, he steps through the doorway, and releases a soft breath at what he sees.

Bono is on his back, his legs splayed open in invitation, wanton except for how his hands rest almost demurely above his cock, still carefully positioned just as Edge had directed.  But it’s his face that says the most: turned towards the doorway, gaze fixing immediately on Edge’s when he steps into the room.  His eyes are wide, not flickering down Edge’s bare form like he half expected, and as Edge draws closer he can see a hint of anxiety in them: he stayed away too long.  

He closes the distance quickly, Bono perfectly still except to track him with his gaze.  Edge pauses at the side of the bed, reaching out to cup Bono’s face in his hand.  “Beautiful,” he whispers.  “So good, Bono.”

Bono releases a shuddering breath, some of the tension leaving him as Edge gets onto the bed.  He dips his head towards Edge’s face, and Edge presses their foreheads together as he settles himself against Bono’s body.  For a moment, they remain there, urgency forgotten as they lie skin to skin.  Edge presses his palm against Bono’s throat, feeling as if his body is realigning, all his cells shedding chaos and instead falling into order, like Bono is a magnet pulling them into line.

They breathe together, heated air swirling between them until desire reasserts itself, and Edge runs his palm down Bono’s chest until he reaches Bono’s hands.  “Let go,” he murmurs, and Bono does, dropping his arms to his sides.  With no further impediments, Edge licks a stripe up his palm and takes Bono in his hand.

Bono arches into the contact, his sudden inhale whistling in Edge’s ear.  Edge moves with him, huffing out a breath and sliding one leg over Bono’s thigh, helping anchor him in place.  A soft whine escapes as Edge begins to stroke, and Edge puts his lips to Bono’s ear.  “Yes, B, that’s it,” he whispers, heat stirring his belly.  “No words.  But let me hear you, I want to hear you.”  

Bono answers with a low moan, and Edge allows it to roll through him as he strokes Bono to full hardness. There’s a sense of power in hearing Bono, so typically verbose, reduced to mere sounds, and Edge wants to reward him. “God, yes, so good, Bono,” he murmurs into the curve of his ear, and Bono shudders and gasps, a response so far beyond his simple words that Edge nearly stops in wonder. But Bono rolls his face towards Edge, so Edge kisses him, pressing up against Bono’s hip and unable to resist thrusting a couple of times before forcing himself to back off. Bono’s fingers brush against his cock, trying clumsily to get a hold, but Edge shifts himself down and out of reach. He receives a whine in response to that, and hides a smile against Bono’s skin as he starts to kiss his way down his chest.

He is careful to be thorough, but urgency is starting to take over, and it’s with a sense of relief that he reaches the juncture of Bono’s legs and settles between them.  Sliding his hand down from Bono’s erection, he encourages Bono’s legs to part further.  Then, slipping his fingers over his balls and then back, Edge releases a low sound when he feels slickness around the puckered hole. 

“Bono,” he groans, pushing his face into Bono’s belly, feeling the answering moan.  He tries to take his time, to tease him open in case Bono wasn’t thorough about his prep, but he can’t hold out for long.  He presses, and Bono quivers and then lets him in, hot slick slide as if his finger is nothing.  “Oh, God.”  One finger quickly becomes two, the slide nearly as easy.  “Bono, fuck, you’re perfect, you did exactly right, so good,” and a broken moan spills out as Edge works his fingers.  Several moments pass as Edge gets lost in the heat of him, in the softness of his inner walls, pushing away his own arousal by focusing on opening Bono up, taking him beyond the preliminary prep he’d had Bono do.  There’s lube on the bedside table, and Edge withdraws just long enough to re-slick his fingers, then pushes back in.  Unable to resist any longer, he runs his tongue along the underside of Bono’s shaft and then takes it in his mouth, riding out the way Bono bucks up into him.  

Edge works him with fingers and tongue, learning again the sensitive spots and favorite motions, listening to Bono’s voice rise and fall around him.  But he finds himself wanting to hear Bono’s words, feel his touch, and so he pulls off of him and pushes onto his elbow, stilling his fingers inside.  “Bono,” he says, and his voice is wrecked; he watches Bono’s head roll against the mattress, dazed blue eyes finding his.  Edge reaches up and takes Bono’s hand, feeling the fingers curl tightly around his.  “Bono,” he repeats.  “No more restraints, okay?  I want you to touch me, I want you to talk to me.”

All that yields him is a frown, Bono’s brows drawing together in confusion, and fuck, he’s out of practice at this.  Carefully, he withdraws his fingers, cursing himself for another mistake as distress flickers across Bono’s face.  Quickly pushing himself up until they’re on a level, trying to be careful of Bono’s shoulder and arm, Edge takes Bono’s face in his hands and kisses him deeply.  Bono is cautious at first, body still and mouth only moving in response to Edge’s.  But Edge persists, pouring all his considerable passion into the kiss, until Bono begins to reciprocate.  

Edge finally pulls away just enough to speak.  “Yes,” he whispers, “just like that, B.”  He presses another kiss to those lips and, thinking he might know what to do, strives to find the words he needs.  “I’m in awe of you, you know.  I can’t get enough of you.”  Bono shivers and stares up at him, those eyes full of a fragile hope, naked and vulnerable.  Edge releases a shaking breath; that’s the look that he lives for, the reflection of a soul he would do anything to protect.  “Beautiful,” he whispers.

Reaching down, he takes Bono’s hand and places it against his waist, leaning into the contact.  “Talk to me, Bono,” he says, leaning down to brush another kiss against his lips.  “Touch me.  I want to know what you’re feeling.”

“Edge,” Bono says, and Edge kisses his throat in reward.  “Edge.”  There’s a desperate note in his voice that Edge doesn’t need vocabulary to understand, and he moves back down, gathering more lube before re-entering Bono’s body.  Bono gives a shuddering gasp, and Edge closes his eyes as he presses in deep.  This is the only place he wants to be, and he wonders for a moment that he ever left it.  

He withdraws enough to press a third finger against Bono’s entrance, only the tips holding him open, and looks up at Bono’s face.  “What do you think, B?” he murmurs.  “Ready for a third?  I know it’s been a long time.”

“Please,” Bono whispers, tilting his hips up, and Edge places a kiss on his belly as he begins to press in.  As soon as he feels resistance, he backs off, working his fingers in tiny increments until Bono relaxes around him, allowing him in further.  Bono is tight and hot, squeezing his fingers together like a vice, and Edge finds his mind clouded with both concern and anticipation for how it will feel around his cock.  He tries to remember to keep speaking, that his words seem to be important to Bono, but as Bono opens around him he can hear them dissolving into nonsense, a counterpoint to Bono’s own incoherent sounds.

Finally he can stand it no longer, and gently pulls free from Bono’s body. Bono cries out in protest, shifting his hips in an attempt to keep Edge inside, and Edge runs a hand soothingly up his chest, feeling the sweat that’s broken out there.  “Hey, it’s okay,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady as he positions himself over Bono’s body.  His cock is heavy and hot, almost painful in its prolonged arousal, but he makes himself ignore it as he finds Bono’s eyes.  The pupils are blown wide, only a thin ring of blue visible around them, with a slightly frantic note that Edge soothes away with a kiss.  When Bono’s eyes focus on his, Edge asks, “Are you ready?”  

“Yes,” Bono breathes.  “ _Please_ , Edge.”

“Okay,” Edge says, unable to resist kissing him again.  “Onto your side, love.”

He shifts over and presses a hand against Bono’s hip, encouraging him to roll away onto his right side; Bono starts the motion, but then stiffens and returns to his back, turning his face towards Edge, eyes wide.  “What is it?” Edge asks, concerned.  “Did that hurt?”

Bono shakes his head briefly, but doesn’t speak, staring up at him.  Edge tries again.  “Why don’t you want to go on your side?”  He runs a finger down Bono’s face.  “Tell me, Bono.”

Bono blows out a breath and then says, “I want to see you.”

Edge kisses him, and considers his response.  “I know, B.  I want to see you, too.”  He traces the line of Bono’s shoulder, following it around and down to his elbow.  “But I’m afraid that I might hurt you if you stay on your back.”  

“Won’t.”

“I wouldn’t mean to,” Edge says softly.  “But I might.  We’ll get there, B.  Just not tonight.”  He kisses him again, until the stubbornness starts to melt away from Bono’s mouth.  He pulls away to whisper, “I want to feel you against me, Bono, every inch of you, I want to be inside you and against you and around you, so you can feel me everywhere.”

Bono shivers, his gaze still fixed on Edge’s face, and Edge whispers, “Close your eyes.”  

After a second, he does, and Edge murmurs “Yes, B, good,” before urging him onto his side again.  This time, Bono goes without protest, and Edge immediately presses up behind him, pouring lavish praise into his ear.  He doesn’t stop speaking as he slicks himself up and arranges their bodies, words of adoration and affirmation, and as he presses against Bono’s entrance he can feel the low-level tremor under Bono’s skin everywhere they touch.

Then he moves, rolling his hips firmly until the head pushes in, and his words stutter to a stop as all he can feel is blindingly tight heat.  A gasp escapes him as he presses his forehead to the back of Bono’s neck, his arms tightening around Bono’s torso until the initial sensation fades enough for him to regain awareness of his surroundings.  Bono’s chest is rising and falling in rapid pants, but there’s none of the tension that would signal pain, so after a moment Edge pushes in further, shuddering when a cry falls from Bono’s mouth.  There are no words while Edge slowly works himself in, only broken sounds, and Bono’s hand fumbles until it finds Edge’s, fingers locking around it and gripping it tight.

When he’s finally fully seated, Edge takes a moment - not just for Bono to adjust, but for himself as well.  He presses his cheek between Bono’s shoulder blades, his chest against Bono’s back, holding him as closely as possible.  He can smell the tang of skin and sweat, his own eyes closed as he fights to not become overwhelmed.  They breathe.

Finally it becomes too much, and Edge manages, “Okay, B, I’m going to move now.”  There’s an answering press of fingers against his, and he rolls his hips, feels the tremor of Bono’s body.  Breathing out, he does it again, brain fuzzing out for awhile as he gradually increases the motion, begins to establish a rhythm.  

Bono feels incredible, a slick hot vice around his cock; but more than that, it’s the feel of his skin against Edge’s, the clutch of his fingers, the sound of his voice that makes Edge want to lose himself.  Bono was the first person who ever made Edge realize what it meant to truly be one with someone, and every time they’re together he’s reminded anew.  There’s an intense intimacy in their creativity, and the vulnerability that Bono has always been willing to show him both in the studio and in the bedroom never fails to awe him.  

The feeling of Bono’s fingers tightening around his penetrates his hazy brain, and Bono’s shoulders are growing tense under his lips.  It takes a moment to realize this isn’t a sign of impending orgasm, and Edge drags his head up to see Bono’s eyes still closed, but a small crease forming between his eyes.  Not pain, but not a look of concentrated pleasure, and Edge immediately wants to derail it.

He feels a brief flash of worry that he was wrong to push for this position, that being unable to see him is causing some distress. “Bono,” Edge gasps out, “Bono, I’m here.”  Some of the tension starts to seep out of Bono’s face, and Edge realizes it’s his words that have been missing; he searches for more, his usual vocabulary abandoning him in the midst of all this sensation.  “I’m here,” he repeats, pushing in as deeply as he can, smearing the words against Bono’s previously-shattered shoulder blade.  “You’re amazing, B… you feel… so good… you’re so… so good for me.”  He’s spilling out whatever comes to mind, higher brain function unable to form more complex praise.  Even those simple phrases elicit a moan from Bono, however, his body shuddering and then going lax, and Edge finds the words coming more easily.  “So beautiful… God, B, I missed you… love you… so proud of you.”  

He keeps the litany going, the words of praise seeming to pull sounds from Bono, moans and cries that make Edge’s grasp on control begin to slip.  Bono’s body is almost completely limp against his now, with the exception of where Bono still clings to Edge’s hand like a lifeline.

Urgency is threatening to take over, and Edge struggles to find more leverage, to try and bury himself even deeper inside.  Needing more, he untangles his left hand from Bono’s and instead joins it to his right, using his freed hand to pull down a pillow from the head of the bed.  “Here,” he gasps, “hold this,” and he pulls it against Bono’s chest, creating a support as he rolls Bono halfway to his stomach.

The next thrust makes them both groan, and Edge picks up the pace, seeking out the perfect angle.  When he finds it, Bono shudders all over, a gasp catching in his throat like a sob.  “Yes, B, yes,” Edge pants out, and when he hits it again, the cry Bono gives nearly makes him come on the spot.  “Oh God.”  His voice is strangled, but he makes himself keep speaking.  “You’re perfect, Bono, fuck, I can’t believe you sometimes, can’t believe that you’re real.”  He drags his hand down Bono’s chest and belly, feeling the desperate rise and fall as he gasps for breath.  Making a quick swipe at the open jar of lube, Edge closes his hand around Bono’s cock, and Bono jerks at the touch; for an instant Edge thinks he’s going to come right then.  But he just clings to the pillow, and Edge strokes him firmly, setting his sights on bringing him off.  Pushing in deep, he grinds his hips as he leans in to murmur, “I love your heart, Bono… I love how much you care… how much you give.”  He presses his lips to Bono’s throat, feeling the ever-more desperate sounds pouring out into the air.  “I want you to come for me, baby, I want to see you.”  Straining up to reach, he puts his lips against Bono’s ear, wanting him to hear it, feel it, _believe_ it.  “You’re the most beautiful person I know, and I’m so proud that you’re mine.”

Bono’s whole body coils, and he cries out, Edge gasping as Bono pulses around him. He buries his face in Bono’s shoulder and keeps stroking, working Bono through it for long seconds until Bono shudders and whines. Then he gentles his touch, giving one last stroke before running his hand back up Bono’s chest, feeling Bono’s heart racing under his palm. Unable to hold off any longer, he fixes his hand around Bono’s opposite shoulder; then, using this new leverage, Edge pulls back until he’s nearly free before driving back in to the hilt.

Edge can feel the huffs of air that get pushed out of Bono at each thrust, hear the little cry when he accidentally brushes against his oversensitive prostate.  But Bono’s body is relaxed and pliant against his, and Edge can feel his vision narrowing, a singular focus on the pursuit of orgasm.

It overtakes him in a rush, a gasp catching in his throat and every muscle drawing tight as he comes. His fingers curl against Bono’s shoulder, and his face presses against the base of Bono’s neck as he empties himself. It’s relief, and completion, a wash of feelings that encompasses him entirely.

Bliss spools out for long moments, rolling through him as his body rides out the sensations. But even before the immediate pleasure fades, he’s drawn irrevocably back to the man in his arms. While his breathing is still ragged, his heart is still thundering in his chest, he’s running his hand all along Bono’s skin. A simple, essential point of contact.

As he slowly regains awareness, he continues the mindless connection while his body begins to calm.  Bono is still, Edge pressed all along his back, and he becomes aware of a fine tremor running under Bono’s skin.  Dragging a hand up Bono’s bicep, he then slides it down his back, a firm, grounding touch.  It’s a struggle to find words, but even through the haze Edge knows they’re needed; he murmurs Bono’s name, endearments and nonsense pouring out of him as he begins to come back to himself.

Eventually, the contact all along their bodies is no longer enough; Edge needs to see Bono’s face.  There’s a brief, shuddering inhale when Edge carefully slides free, and Bono’s shoulders draw tight.  “I’m here, B,” he says immediately, pressing close.  “I’m not going anywhere.  I just want to see you.  I want to take care of you.”  Slowly, deliberately, he frees his right hand from where it’s still clasped in Bono’s, and levers himself up onto his elbow, careful to maintain physical contact and a verbal presence.  

Bono’s eyes are still closed, and there are streaks of wetness at the corners; Edge reaches out and traces one, blending the moisture into his skin.  He’s curled into himself, left hand clutching at the pillow Edge had given him, and Edge presses a kiss behind his ear as he considers his options.  He doesn’t want to leave even for a moment, but he needs to get them cleaned up, and he needs to be here when Bono starts to resurface.  Resting his hand steadily against Bono’s upper arm, he leans in to speak into his ear.  “I’m going to go to the bathroom for a minute, B, so I can get us cleaned up.”  There’s not much in the way of response, and Edge isn’t sure if his meaning is registering at this point, but the worst thing he could do is disappear without warning and make Bono feel abandoned.  “I’ll be just in the next room, I’ll be watching you the whole time, and I’ll be right back.”  He pulls his hand away and leans back; Bono clutches the pillow closer but when there’s no real sign of distress, he rolls off the bed.

Edge keeps up an easy patter as he goes into the bathroom, running the water until it’s hot and quickly cleaning himself up.  Within a few moments he’s returning with a warm, damp washcloth.

He circles the bed until he’s in front of Bono, and places the cloth on the bedside table.  “I’m back,” he whispers, and slides into the bed.  There’s a brief resistance when Edge pulls the pillow away, but then Edge shifts over, and Bono melts into him.

For a moment, cleanup is forgotten as Edge holds him close, stroking his hand up Bono’s back, savoring the press of chest to chest.  He’s still well under, and Edge feels a little spike of pride that he was able to get him there.  He’s not sure how often they’ll be able to do this in the coming months, but he’s already considering how he can carve out pockets of time, to give Bono a break from himself.

“Okay, B,” he whispers, reaching over to snag the washcloth.  “Gonna get cleaned up now, it’s warm and damp, alright?”  There’s leftover smears of lube on their chests, and come on Bono’s belly, grown tacky enough that Edge has to scrub a little to get it out of his hair.  Bono shivers as Edge gently wipes down his cock and between his legs.

Setting the cloth aside, Edge brings his hand to the small of Bono’s back, stroking a couple of times before sliding down.  Bono shifts a little as Edge brushes over his hole, the flesh swollen and still slippery with escaping fluids.  “Wanna make sure you’re not hurt, okay?”  His finger slides in easily and comes out clean, the soft inhale from Bono more sensitivity than pain.  “Good, B, you’re perfect.”

Finished with all he can do until Bono’s ready to resurface, he runs his hands all along Bono’s body, soothing and rhythmic.  He presses their foreheads together and whispers to him, praise and endearments to start, then shifting to their surroundings, and his plans for the few days ahead, trying to draw Bono back into the present.

When Bono’s eyes finally open, Edge feels his face split into a smile.  “Hi.”

Bono blinks, but his gaze meets Edge’s, and his mouth turns up a little.  He rocks his head towards Edge, who meets him for a brief kiss.  Bono’s movements are slow and unfocused, and Edge traces a thumb against his cheek, places his palm against his neck.  “So beautiful, Bono,” he whispers, and Bono’s gaze grows a little sharper, more aware.  “Can’t believe how perfect you are, how much you give me.”  

Bono makes a small, contented noise, and settles his head into Edge’s shoulder.  Edge presses his lips to Bono’s forehead, and goes with an instinct.  “You never disappoint me.” 

There’s a flash of tension in Bono’s body, and Edge closes his eyes.  He doesn’t let himself react beyond that, continuing to stroke Bono’s skin, spilling words of reassurance and love into the space between them.  Even though he’d already known, a tiny flicker of anger is present at the thought that Bono would worry about such a thing; and yet, he knows it’s not really about him at all.  

He cannot control the expectations of millions, some of whom might not know or care about the things Bono has overcome.  He cannot control the fact that invariably, some of them will not be satisfied.  And though he wishes he could, he cannot control the value Bono places on their satisfaction.  

What he can control is himself.  So he continues to draw Bono back to awareness, pouring out praise and rewarding small obediences.  He feeds him the remains of the fruit tray, gives him water, draws them a bath.  He ensures Bono is fully back to himself before allowing him to slide into sleep, then stays beside him and watches, planning out the safe space he’s going to build. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edge’s list:  
> 1\. Eat at least half of what’s on the tray.  
> 2\. Prepare yourself up to two fingers. Use more lube than you think you need.  
> 3\. Dress in what I have set out for you. Nothing more, nothing less.  
> 4\. Come to my room.


	7. Epilogue

It’s a morning like any of thousands of others.  She rises at dawn and dresses, then heads upstairs to make sure the boys are doing the same.  Makes coffee, sets out breakfast things, asks the boys if they have all their homework while they eat.  Then it’s time to load in the car, wait while John doubles back for the book he forgot, and make the trip to drop her sons at school.  

There’s easy chatter as she drives, about an upcoming test and sports practice after class.  She agrees to take John shopping for new athletic shoes, and that Eli can go to the movies with Levi that evening.  They race off as soon as she pulls up in front of the school, and she manages to make it halfway back home before she thinks about Bono.

Missing him is immediate; an ache blooms in her chest, encroaching loneliness mixing bittersweet with pride.  It’s a familiar feeling, one she’s made peace with over the years.  Yet no matter how much she prepares herself for it, the first wave always rocks her.

There’s a moment where she considers inventing some errands, or calling Morleigh to meet for coffee, just so she doesn’t have to go home quite yet. But she has never been one for avoidance, and does not plan to begin now.

So she takes herself home, and resists the urge to call Bono just to hear his voice.  She busies herself cleaning up the breakfast mess, and tidies up the den.  Then she returns to the bedroom and makes the bed, trying not to think about how only half of it was slept in.

She’s smoothing out the comforter when her phone chimes with Edge’s text tone.  It makes her start, just a little; it’s early still, and she hadn’t expected to hear from either of them for at least a couple of days.  She pulls out her phone to see a photo thumbnail on the display, and she sits on the edge of the bed as she opens it up to fill the screen.

The image is dominated by a silhouette, the pink of a dawn sky cut through by her husband’s distinctive profile.  He’s facing the rising sun, and light catches on the frame of his glasses, illuminating just enough of his face to show the relaxed set of his features.  It’s an unguarded moment, Edge presumably unseen behind him, and Ali lets her eyes trace over Bono’s face.

His gaze is fixed on the horizon, the soft light painting the planes of his face in pinks and golds.  The lines by his eyes, made deeper lately by pain and stress, are nearly invisible, and the corner of his mouth tilts up in an unconscious smile.  The slope of his neck and shoulders is easy, and a contentment radiates from him that reaches out and seeps into her, soothing the worry that has lived knotted up in her breast.  He's safe.

Ali closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who's taken the time to read, especially if you've commented also. Your encouragement has been priceless. This has been such a pleasure, and I hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I've enjoyed writing.


End file.
